


Returning Robin

by dotfic



Category: Batman: The Animated Series, DCU Animated
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-21
Updated: 2005-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:58:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something Tim Drake needs to finish, and he'll need help from someone who knows just what being Robin means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Returning Robin

Title: Returning Robin  
Author: dotfic  
Rating: PG-13  
First posted to LJ 9/21/2005  
Summary: There's something Tim Drake needs to finish, and he'll need help from someone who knows just what being Robin means.

A/N: This story was inspired both by canon as established in _Return of the Joker_ and by the work of , who kindly gave me permission to play in her fanon and write a follow-up to her story [](http:)The Stolen Child.

We have each independently written stories dealing with the aftermath of Tim Drake's abduction. When I asked to write this follow-up to The Stolen Child, we decided to join forces. The stories we've done that comprise what we call "the Robin Red Bird fanon" are now indexed conveniently on a [](http:)website.

You don't have to have read the other stories to read this one. There are references in this to other stories listed at the website (if you're curious). No, we're not too proud to plug our own stories :)

It also helps if you've seen _Return of the Joker_.

Disclaimer: Characters are property of DC Comics/WB, except for Dr. Nichols who is the invention of mtgat. Certain characters and situations are ~~borrowed~~ lovingly ripped off from Chuck Dixon's work on Nightwing.

 

* * *

 

The shock of the water woke him up.

For several disorienting seconds he couldn't remember how he had ended up there, with a chain around his torso, his wrists, his ankles, and a weight pulling him down to the bottom of the Bludhaven river. He remembered trying to fight his way to Blockbuster through a series of broad-shouldered goons, and then—

Oh, yeah.

The water was dark, with silt floating in it. The night vision lenses did little to help. Twisting, he managed to shift the chains that bound his hands behind his back. Had they been ropes, he would have been free already, but chains were different.

He wasn't Superman, after all.

For that matter, he wasn't Batman either.

_Hey, look, it's not like Batman never fell into a trap._

Nightwing twisted, his fingers reaching for the pouch in his uniform where he kept a small rebreather that held about fifteen minutes of air.

The chains were too tight.

_Nice going, bird-brain. Why don't you just serve yourself to the bad guys on a silver platter next time?_

As he fell, what little ambient light there was in the water faded.

His lungs ached to exhale. Carefully he let out just a few bubbles of air as he tried to figure out how many minutes he'd been under water. He'd been trained long ago to hold his breath longer than a normal person could, but he'd expelled some air when he hit the water.

He just wasn't a waterbird. Always had bad luck with the stuff.

Sometimes it almost seemed like the Gotham waterways had it in for him. They called his name, waiting for him to fall one more time.

In the past, he'd been lucky. Someone was always there to pull him out. That time when he was four and played too close to the edge of the elephant water trough. After his parents died and he found Tony Zucco but the railing over the canal gave way. There was also Bane...

Shock was making his mind wander. He jerked his body, deliberately letting the chains hurt him, to wake himself up.

_Focus!_

The weight was much too heavy. His lungs felt like they were going to explode with the pressure of holding his breath.

Then he saw something strange: a small, lithe figure swimming towards him through the murk. It seemed odd that the figure appeared to be wearing all black, and had what looked like a ski mask over its face.

Right before he passed out, Nightwing thought, _It's all wrong._

He should be wearing scarlet.

 

***

APRIL – SIX MONTHS AGO

"Here we are." Dick pushed open the heavy, scarred metal door.

Tim dropped his duffel bag to the wooden floor with a _thump_ and stared around at the loft. Sunlight streamed in through the broad, multi-paned windows. Once the building had been a warehouse until some enterprising landlord converted it into living space.

"Your room's down this way. I had the walls put up—the Titans helped," Dick said, leading Tim through the loft. "You get the view of the river." Opening a door, Dick stepped aside to let Tim go in first. "It's nothing much but you can add more furniture later. Decorate it any way you want. This is your home now."

He told himself that he was babbling, that he should stop. None of this would help Tim, or force him to be enthusiastic again. The old Tim would have said "Cool!" or made a joke or started to make immediate plans to paint the walls something other than the drab white.

Listlessly, Tim touched the X-Box resting on top of the 32" television. "Thanks," he said.

All that was in the room now was a bed, the television, a bare bookshelf, and a dresser.

The first week, neither of them did too much. They hung out, they talked about neutral subjects like sports teams and favorite foods.

Or rather, Dick talked about sports and his favorite foods while Tim occasionally gave a two-word answer. They watched movies with a lot of chases and swashbuckling and improbable plots involving mummies or treasure hunts.

Dick didn't tell Tim about what was behind the south wall of the loft. Time enough for that later. _Don't rush him._ He was determined to stick to his promise to Leslie; he already felt bad about disobeying her on this the first time.

The apathy Dick saw in Tim's eyes, his lack of reaction to the silly gags in the movies they watched, made him want to put his fist through a wall. Patience had never been one of Dick Grayson's strengths, but Tim needed to be in Bludhaven right now. So Dick Grayson would learn to be patient.

That first week, Dick kept Tim hours, which fit his natural sleep patterns anyway. Tim had insomnia a lot, so they stayed up late together playing video games on the big-screen TV out in the main room and ate junk food. It meant that Dick slept when Tim slept.

The second week, Dick had to return to the city that was starting to depend on him. So he was on patrol while Tim slept.

He had no idea how often Tim had the nightmares. Three nights in a row Dick returned to the loft to hear Tim screaming. The first time it happened, Dick ran to Tim's room and kicked the door open even though that door had no lock. It took him a moment to realize that none of the Bludhaven rogues' gallery had broken into the loft to hold Tim hostage, that it was just Tim having a nightmare, thrashing under the covers in the darkened room.

The second time, even though he knew what it was now, Dick raced all the same, and the third. And any night after that.

Sometimes Tim thought he was still strapped to that table with the Joker laughing at him, and Dick had to shake him until he woke up.

Dutifully, Dick noted the incidents down in a journal to show to Leslie. Tim kept taking the pills.

***

MAY – FIVE MONTHS AGO

Dick paused to check on Tim before going out on patrol. He heard muffled TV sounds from inside Tim's room.

"Come in," Tim said in response to Dick's knock, not sounding at all sleepy.

"Hey, squirt. I was just on my way out." Dick leaned against the doorframe.

The flicker of the television was the only light in the room. It was some sort of sitcom. Tim watched a lot of sitcoms, most of them involving middle-class families. With Dick it had been forensic crime dramas, where the square-jawed hero followed clues, tracked down the criminal, and sent him to jail. Alfred never approved of him watching such shows, and if he caught him he would make tut-tut noises and make him turn them off.

Alfred never saw the irony of this. He always did his best to keep everything normal, whatever that meant.

Dick had never wanted "normal." He'd wanted vengeance, justice, someplace to put his rage at the man who killed his parents. Maybe Tim had wanted normal, though. If Tim couldn't have normal, then he'd have Robin.

Turning away from the TV, Tim hit the mute button on the remote. His eyes were shadowed. "You going out on patrol?"

"Yeah."

The figures moved on the screen, living an alien life. Tim frowned and pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Is Bludhaven more dangerous than Gotham?"

This question was unexpected. "Where did you get that idea?"

"I heard Bruce talking to Alfred once. He said 'Anything too vile for Gotham floats downstream to Bludhaven.'" Tim tilted his head to the side, the remote held loose in his hands, as if it were a batarang. "So I wondered."

"Bludhaven's a city, that's all. It's a little harder here. There's no Gordon. In fact the PD is corrupt from the top down but I can't prove it yet." At the expression on Tim's face, Dick hastily added, "But there's nothing to worry about. It's just a city. Nothing I can't handle. I mean, hey." He spread his arms. "It's me."

He thought Tim would smile at this. But he didn't, he just stared at Dick.

"Okay, I'm heading out. Don't watch too much TV, it'll give you a headache."

"Sure, Mom," Tim said.

It was the first joke he'd heard Tim make in a very long time.

***

When Barbara called, they were playing video games on the big-screen TV. Tim answered the phone.

Dick listened while Tim gave her one or two syllable answers like "Uh-huh," "Yes," "Fine," "Good," "No," and "Pizza."

"She wants to talk to you." Tim held the receiver out to Dick.

There was a time when he would have refused.

"Hey, Barbara."

"Hi. I wanted to ask you how he's doing, since he's mad at me and I can't get him to tell me anything."

He could hear the frustration in her voice, practically vibrating along the phone lines. It mirrored his own. "I know what you mean. He really is okay. Better."

"Really? Does he still have nightmares?"

"Yeah, but I think they're getting less intense."

"It's a start."

"Yeah, it's a start."

The silence over the line grew awkward.

"Bye, Dick," she said.

"Bye."

She hung up first.

***

JUNE – FOUR MONTHS AGO

There was a new player in town, one who remained in the background. However, he had men who worked for him that weren't shy of showing themselves: broad-shouldered, ham-fisted hired lackeys.

One night he found the lackeys transferring TV's, DVD players, and game consoles from warehouse to truck. Their truck. Someone else's warehouse. They weren't at all amused when Nightwing interrupted them.

Most of them he could handle. Then a big one gently put down the two TVs he was carrying, and cracked his knuckles. Nightwing used a roundhouse kick to knock one more of them into the wall before he turned to face the big guy.

He forgot that "big" did not always equal "slow."

The loft was quiet and still when he finally made it home. He checked on Tim, who was sleeping peacefully for a change, before staggering down the hall to collapse into bed. He'd sort out the damage in the morning, after he'd had some sleep.

It had been a while since Dick had lived in the dorms at GU or at Wayne Manor under Alfred's watchful eye. He forgot about roommates, and questions.

He also forgot about hiding the limps, the winces, and the bruises. Dick stumbled into the kitchen a few hours later, squinting in the bright sunlight. Tim sat at the table reading some sort of science textbook, eating cereal that turned the milk in the bowl blue.

When Dick reached up for the top shelf of the cabinet to get his favorite type of tea, he yelped at the shooting pain in his ribs before he remembered he had an audience.

That audience had stopped chewing. Blue milk dripped from the spoon held frozen above the cereal bowl. A deep crease of worry formed between Tim's eyes, a crease too deep for someone his age.

"You okay?" He asked carefully.

Dick lowered his arm, deciding he'd just have another kind of tea instead. "I'm fine."

Even as he said it, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. If there was one thing they all had a radar for, it was the phrase _I'm fine._

Tim dropped the spoon into the bowl, splattering his book with a few droplets of sugar-laced milk. He pushed back his chair with a scrape, while Dick desperately tried to think of a way to backpedal.

"What I mean is, I took a couple of hits last night, but it's nothing serious or that I haven't dealt with before."

"Nothing you can't handle?"

Once a Robin, always a Robin. Tim's fingers shot out too fast for Dick to dodge, poking him experimentally in the ribs. "Did that hurt?" Tim demanded, watching his face closely.

"No." Dick blinked back involuntary tears of pain.

"Liar. I'm calling Alfred to come and look at you." Tim reached for the phone hanging on the wall near the sink.

"Don't!" Dick sidestepped neatly, blocking his path.

"Do you want to argue about this? Bruises are one thing. I know about bruises. And that sometimes you have to soldier on through pain. But there's a difference between that and not being able to even _move_. Someone needs to strap your ribs. You could have internal bleeding." He reached for the phone again.

Dick reached out and held down the receiver so Tim couldn't place the call. "I know that. If you call Alfred, then Br—" he stopped.

_Bruce will find out._

For a moment Tim and Dick stood, both holding onto the phone. The toast popped up. Tim gently tugged the phone from Dick's grasp and hit a button on the speed-dial.

"Hi, Dr. Thompkins, it's me, Tim...no, I'm doing fine. But could you come to Bludhaven and take a look at Dick?...Uh-huh, last night....his ribs...he says...yeah, exactly....okay, thanks." He hung up. "She'll be here in an hour and she says you're supposed to sit still until then."

"Okay, you win." He sat down at the kitchen table. It was a relief now to be able hug his arm to his side, protecting his ribs.

"So who did this to you?" Tim cleared away the cereal bowl, dumping it into the sink. "Like, ten guys?"

Dick coughed. "One." At Tim's stare, he grinned. "That was _after_ I took out ten guys. There was just this one who had a glandular problem. Doesn't matter, it's not him I want, it's his boss."

"Who's his boss?"

"Don't know yet. Someone's trying to take over Bludhaven's underworld. He's been taking out the smaller fish or persuading them to join him. The last thing Bludhaven needs right now is a central crime power. There are enough problems with this place as it is." Dick reached out and pulled the open science book closer to him. "Introduction to Engineering?"

Shrugging, Tim pulled the book back. "It's interesting. I can't play video games all day long forever." He stared down at the pages as if not really seeing them.

***

It was Tim's first visit beyond the hidden panel. It had only seemed natural for Tim to follow Leslie and Dick. Dick pushed aside the mirror to reveal a number pad

When he hit the security code and the panel slid open, Tim expressed no surprise.

"I thought so."

While Leslie bandaged Dick, Tim explored the secret lair. He checked out the computers, the sauna and shower, the weight machines, the gymnastics equipment, the cabinet where Nightwing kept his escrima sticks, gas pellets, batarangs, and rapelling guns.

Dr. Thompkins tore off another small piece of surgical tape, finishing her handiwork on Dick's ribs.

"Only a hairline fracture and some bruising. You're lucky, it could have been worse."

Dick pulled his t-shirt back on while Leslie started to put the extra bandages away. "Thanks for your help."

"All you have to do is call." She smiled, and once again Dick understood why Bruce trusted her with his secrets. Leslie glanced over at Tim, who was fiddling with one of the weight machines. "How is he?"

"Fewer nightmares the last two or three weeks. I'm not sure what brought that about."

"Probably he's too busy worrying about you." She pursed her lips a moment. "How are _you_, by the way? Alfred won't tell me anything."

"Because there's not much to tell." He hesitated. "Really, I'm okay. Just got a little sloppy last night is all."

"Hmmm," Leslie said, using what Dick always thought of as her "Doctor voice." She tucked a few strands of white hair back into the bun at the base of her neck. "If you say so."

"Hey, Dick," Tim joined them. "Is it okay if I use your training equipment? When you're not using it, I mean?"

"Help yourself," he said, keeping his voice casual. "Use it whenever you like." He glanced at Leslie, who was watching Tim. He wondered what she was thinking.

"Tim," Leslie said. "I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes before I go. Dick, do you mind..."

"No problem, I'll just go and—"

"No," Tim said. "Stay." He looked at Leslie. "There's nothing I would tell you that I wouldn't tell Dick."

"All right." She sat down on the bench nearby, patting it from Tim to join her. He did.

"Dick says you're sleeping better."

"Yeah."

"Any ideas why?"

"No. Well, I like it here. I mean, Bludhaven's kind of messed up. But this neighborhood's interesting, there's this coffee bar I like to go to where this indie band plays sometimes. And Dick's fun to hang out with, we watch a lot of movies and go to ball games and stuff."

"Do the two of you talk?"

"Sure."

Dick bit his tongue to keep from speaking.

"What do you talk about?"

"Y'know. Stuff." A shrug.

"About your nightmares? About how you feel?"

After a long hesitation, Tim shook his head. He stared down at his sneakers.

"It's okay, Tim." She patted his arm. "I just don't want you to feel like you can't talk about those things if you need to. You could talk to Dick, or to me, or Dr. Nichols. You have his phone number, right?"

Tim nodded. "But I probably won't call him."

"All right." She and Tim both rose. Leslie looked down at him. "I think you've gotten taller."

***

JULY - THREE MONTHS AGO

"No, your back should be straighter. That's it. Now dismount."

Tim executed a competent backflip off the uneven bars.

Alfred applauded while Dick threw a towel at Tim. "Okay. That's enough for one day, go hit the showers, genius."

"I say, Master Richard," Alfred said in a low voice, as Tim vanished through the door leading back out to the loft proper. "Master Tim is looking much healthier."

"He started working out again. I've been giving him some light training." At Alfred's raised eyebrow, Dick hastily continued, "Nothing like that, just what any personal trainer could do for him. He likes gymnastics." He grasped the parallel bars and started running through an easy routine while Alfred stood watching, stiff in his suit and bow-tie.

"Much as I hate to say this, it does seem to have done him good to get away from Wayne Manor."

Doing a one-handed handstand, Dick looked at Alfred upside down. "The place can be pretty depressing, you have to admit."

"You were content there, for a time."

Dick switched to the other hand. His ribs barely bothered him. "I'm not Tim." He launched himself into the dismount, his bare feet landing on the mat without a sound. "Nothing like that ever happened to me." Catching the expression on Alfred's face, he changed the subject. "How's Bruce doing?"

"Still tryng to carry the whole world on his shoulders. He will be greatly relieved to hear of Master Timothy's improvement. Master Bruce has been quite worried about him, you know."

"Yeah, I know. He doesn't show it, but he cares. The problem is, while I've figured that out, Tim hasn't." Dick lay back on the bench of a weight machine, released the safety catch, and began doing presses. "If Bruce had just told Tim what he told me, about why he fired Tim as Robin, things might have been easier for everyone. Tim thinks he screwed up."

"I could ask Master Bruce to—"

"No!" Dick replaced the safety catch and sat up, his arms hooked over the handles of the machine. "Are you kidding? You know as well as I do the last way to get Bruce to tell anybody anything is to ask him to do it."

Alfred sat down on the weight machine next to Dick's. "Yes. I know. I just hoped that perhaps..." his voice sounded unexpectedly raw. Then he coughed. "I believe he is worried about you, as well."

"Me?" Dick lay back and continued lifting the weights. "Why? Did Tim...uh...did Tim say anything to you?"

Oops. He tried to ignore the way Alfred's eyes narrowed. "No, lad. Master Tim didn't say anything to me, although your asking if he did would imply there is something to tell after all. Furthermore, since when am I regarded as some sort of spy?"

He paused in mid-lift. "Sorry, Alfred."

"All right then. No, Master Timothy has not said anything to me that I might have reported to Master Bruce. However, Master Bruce has made certain remarks to me regarding rumors he has heard on the underworld grapevine. Namely, that someone has upset the workings of a major criminal in Bludhaven, and that said criminal has been howling for blood in return."

"Really." Dick started another eight reps. "Actually, that's good news. I didn't realize I'd wounded his operation that badly. If I made him that mad, I must be doing my job right."

"Yeah." Tim rejoined them, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved band logo shirt. He walked towards them, drying his ears with a towel, his damp hair sticking up in all directions. "Nightwing's pissed off the big guns. It's kind of impressive, actually."

"'Kind of impressive'? 'Kind of'?" Dick locked the weights and rolled to his feet. "Hey, I'd say it was _very_ impressive."

There was a slight grin on Tim's face, the first Dick had seen in a long time. "Watch out, Alfred, his head might swell so much there won't be room in here for us. The local paper did a front-page feature on Nightwing last week. We have the clipping, I'll show it to you later."

"Perhaps over lunch." Alfred wrinkled his nose. "I saw the empty pizza boxes on the landing. It's time I reminded you boys what a _real_ meal looks like."

***

Bruce called a few days later.

He asked Dick some questions about financial details. The transferring of control of the Haley Circus trust fund from Wayne Corp to Richard Grayson had already been done years ago, but there were apparently a few other things that Bruce wanted to go over.

Although it was roundabout and Bruce never would let it be phrased that way, it sounded to Dick like Bruce was trying to give him money. None of it was urgent, and finally Dick realized that Bruce was just making conversation.

Bruce never just made conversation.

"...so Lucius says if we took the money from the cd's and put them in a diversified money market..."

"I know you'll never just ask, so I'll just tell you. Tim's doing good. He doesn't have as many nightmares as he used to, and he says he's thinking of getting his GED. He even smiles sometimes."

There was silence on the other end.

"He's all right, Bruce."

"Thanks." Bruce hung up, leaving Dick staring at the receiver, thinking annoyed thoughts about repressed, pain-in-the-ass father figures.

***

AUGUST – TWO MONTHS AGO

The summer night was muggy. From the coffee shop behind Dick came the muffled thumps of a base guitar and drums.

For the tenth time, Dick checked his watch. He walked to the corner and back, bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, and looked at his watch again. A welcome breeze arose and chased bits of trash along the sidewalk.

Having talked Dick into taking a rare night off to meet him at the coffee shop to hear a new band, Tim was now late. Dick looked down the street to the right, then the left, then looked at his watch again.

His cell rang.

"Tim?"

"You have to come and get me."

Despite the heat, Dick felt his stomach go icy. "Are you hurt?"

"No. Not badly."

"Where are you?"

He heard the withheld tears in Tim's voice. "I'm in McDaniel Park, by the swings. I left the alley before the police got there."

"Police?"

"Just come and get me."

***

When Dick found Tim in the park, he was sitting on a swing, holding the sleeve of his t-shirt to staunch his bloody nose. The swing chains creaked softly.

"God, Tim, what happened?" He fumbled for tissues, then held them to Tim's nose to stop the bleeding.

"There were four of them. Big guys, looked like they were still in high school." Tim pulled away from Dick and wiped the remains of the blood from his upper lip. "They surrounded me in Walker alley. They wanted my cd player and my wallet and my cell phone."

Tim leaned his face against the swing chain, looking extremely young. "I don't think they thought I had that much. They just saw a smaller kid and thought it'd be fun to rob me. When I didn't just hand everything over, it made them mad. So they jumped me." He began shivering in the warm air.

"Take it easy," Dick said.

"One of them slugged me. I didn't even think about it but suddenly I was using all those moves Bruce taught me. I trashed all four of them. Then I called the police, and left them in the alley, and called you." He took a long, shuddering breath. "I never thought I'd do that again. Ever."

"I know," Dick said.

Tim hopped off the swing. "I think I'm going to be sick now."

He threw up into a trash can.

***

The next day, Dick made Tim call Leslie and tell her the whole story, while he used his cell phone to track down what had happened to the street thugs.

They'd been checked in and already dismissed from Bludhaven General. One of them had a broken nose, one a broken jaw, one a sprained wrist, one several broken ribs. No concussions or serious injuries.

The police had let them go. Without Tim's testimony, there was no crime to charge them with. As far as the Bludhaven PD was concerned, some worthless street rats had run into an even bigger rat, end of story.

"Here," Tim held the phone out to Dick. "She wants to talk to you."

"Hi, Leslie."

She didn't bother with pleasantries this time. "In cases like Tim's it's very common for the victim to freeze completely. It's good that he fought back. It's healthy."

"What should I do?"

"Keep an eye on him. Talk to him about it. Even if you have to push him a little."

"No problem there. We've been talking about it all night. He knows what this means. He's scared. Of himself, mostly." He glanced at Tim, worried about talking about him when he was standing right there, but Tim only nodded affirmative. "It's been a long time since he was out in the field."

"Did he talk about how he felt during the attack?"

"He said he reacted automatically, without thinking about it. Like muscle memory."

"Yes. I was looking for something more specific. Did he say anything about having a flashback?"

"Huh?"

"Victims who experience post-traumatic stress disorder, when put in a situation that reminds them at all of the original traumatic event, often re-live that event. They think they're back there. Did Tim mention anything like that?"

There was a pause.

"No."

"You don't sound sure, Dick."

At first Tim had been vague about the specifics of the attack, but eventually he'd told Dick more details. Exactly what they did and said, which moves Tim had used. His memory flickered over something Tim hadn't told him at the swings, but had revealed afterwards back at the loft: that they'd held Tim down.

Bruce had once shown Dick the footage of the Joker's home movies.

"That's because I'm not sure. Maybe."

Again he looked at Tim, who had turned his attention to the history textbook he'd left on the coffee table.

"All right. Let me know if you think of anything. Alfred tells me you've been giving him some athletic training," Leslie said.

"Some."

"Maybe you should expand that training a bit."

"I don't understand."

"Tim's got a lot of anger and fear to deal with. Having some way to channel that would help. Maybe you're right and Bruce made a terrible mistake taking Robin away from him. I never approved when Bruce let you out on the streets with him, and I certainly didn't approve when he did it again with Tim." She paused. "I'm not advocating that you take him out on patrol with you. But he has the knowledge and the strength. It needs guidance. Bruce won't give it to him, so maybe you'll have to."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"No. Just think it over. Call if you boys need anything."

Dick hung up the phone. Tim was looking at him expectantly.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing," he said. "She just said to keep an eye on you and said we could call her."

"Oh. Okay."

***

SEPTEMBER – ONE MONTH AGO

They didn't even discuss the possibility of Tim attending the local High School. Besides, Tim was already studying on his own. When Nightwing got in from patrol, if Tim wasn't soundly asleep, he was sitting at the kitchen table with two or three textbooks open around him, taking notes. The nights when Tim appeared to sleep and when he stayed up studying seemed to be about fifty-fifty, and Dick figured it was a good average, particularly since the dark shadows under Tim's eyes had almost vanished.

He smiled more often. But he still never laughed.

Dick started Tim with the basics.

"If your opponent grabs you from behind, what do you do?"

"C'mon, Dick, I know this already. This was one of the first things Bruce taught me."

"Too bad. You've gotten rusty."

"You know you sound like Batman when you talk like that?" Obediently, Tim grabbed Dick's arm and used Dick's own weight to flip him over onto the mat.

"Good. Remember, you're going to be a lot lighter than most of your opponents, so use their weight, not yours."

Tim held out a hand to help Dick up. Instead, Dick used a leg-swipe to knock Tim down. "Also, always be prepared for the unexpected."

***

OCTOBER – TWO HOURS AGO

Half of them were down. The rest were ready to rush in, but then the big one with the glandular problem raised his hand, stilling them.

The Pier 12 warehouse was only the latest location used for Blockbuster's activities. This time they were shipping weapons overseas. It would have made Blockbuster a fortune.

_Would have_ being the operative phrase.

Nightwing had learned not to rush this guy head-on. They circled each other while the lackeys who remained standing watched.

"You're startin' to get on my nerves," the big guy rumbled.

"Aw, that's too bad." He spun-kicked a goon who was unlucky enough to be standing within reach. The guy crashed against some crates and slumped to the floor. "Who's next?"

Three of them surged forward, but again the biggest one held up his hand. "Stop," he barked. They did.

"Where's your boss?" Nightwing said in the voice he used when he wanted to be particularly scary.

It usually worked.

Not this time.

The big one chuckled. "My boss?" He turned to the other hired thugs. "Hey, wouldya listen to that. He wants ta know where my boss is." At this, a bunch of them snickered.

The big guy stepped closer. Nightwing leapt, using a double somersault and his escrima sticks, landing feet first against the big guy's chest. This time he managed to knock him down.

He put the sticks against the massive throat corded with muscles. "Yeah. Your boss. You know, Blockbuster? I'd like to know where he is."

"Very well." The voice suddenly went different, smoother. "The boss you are referring to, well, that would be me." His hand twitched, and something flashed in his fingers. Before Nightwing could move, the hand moved swiftly up towards his throat. He felt a sharp pinch against his skin. "Congratulations. You found me."

With a swat of his arm, Blockbuster knocked Nightwing away so he landed sprawled on the concrete floor.

Blockbuster got to his feet and loomed over him with an urbane smile. "I thought you might figure it out before this. You disappoint me. Here I thought you were actually going to give me a challenge. Now you're just boring me, and I think it's high time I got rid of you."

His vision blurred. Blockbuster's broad features swam in and out of focus.

"What..." The large room tilted. "What'd you give me..."

He had to get out of there, before...before....

He knew nothing more until the shock of the water woke him up.

***

OCTOBER - NOW

Hands were pressing repeatedly against his chest, hard.

Somebody was counting.

"One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. N—"

Nightwing opened his eyes to see starry sky interrupted by the dark arch of a bridge far above him. For a moment he felt himself not breathing. Then the water rose in his throat. He sat up, leaned forward, and coughed up what felt like several gallons of the Bludhaven estuary.

"Dick?"

Wiping his mouth with the back of his kevlar sleeve, he turned and saw the small figure crouched next to him. He was dressed all in black—black jeans, black boots, black long-sleeved t-shirt, black gloves, and he wore a black ski mask. Everything was soaking wet.

"Tim?" He coughed again. Bile came up with the remains of the water. He hunched over again, ridding his body of it. Tim patted him on the back until the coughing calmed. "Hell, Tim, what are you doing here?"

"Saving your sorry hide."

"Blockbuster?"

"Dunno." Tim adjusted his damp ski mask. "I didn't...I didn't go after them. I was watching from the next pier. I saw them carry you out and drop you into the river. So I dove in after you."

"Thanks. That makes what, four times you've saved my bacon?" His throat felt raw, like someone had force-fed him sandpaper. It seemed strange that he couldn't stop shivering. Even though the river water temperature at this time of year was chilly, Kevlar was supposed to be cold and water resistant.

"Twelve. But who's counting? Come on." Tim helped Nightwing stand up. "We'd better get you home."

***

"I don't need a doctor."

"Yes you do."

"N-no, I don't." Dick sat on the couch dressed in his sweats with a thermal blanket around his shoulders. Not even a long, hot shower had warmed him up. He'd probably have to have tetanus shots for weeks. The Bludhaven waterways were even more polluted than Gotham's.

Tim, who had also already showered and changed into jeans and a warm sweater, showed no signs of being cold. "Too bad, I already called her." When the kettle started whistling in the kitchen, Tim headed off to make tea. "Get into bed. I'll wake you up when Dr. Thompkins gets here."

Simply lacking the strength to argue, Dick gathered the blanket around his shoulders more tightly and wandered into his bedroom. He didn't bother turning on the lights.

Through the large windows he could see the twinkling lights of Bludhaven and...a shadow?

"What the—"

Dick went to the window and used the big iron handle to push it open. The hinges creaked. He poked his head out into the chilly October night.

Batman stood on the narrow ledge below the window, his cape flapping in the breeze. He was staring out at the city. He turned his head as Dick appeared, then looked out over the city again. "You're alive," he said flatly.

Gossip traveled as fast in the underworld as it did in Gotham society. Faster, in fact. Somewhere, some criminal must have laughed over it with his buddies. _Hey, didja mooks hear? Blockbuster just offed Nightwing._

Sitting down half in, half out of the window with the blanket still around his shoulders, Dick touched his own wrist pulse. "Last I checked," he joked.

When he looked up again, Batman was gone.

"Why can't he just use the phone like a normal person?" Dick asked softly, into the night.

***

Leslie Thompkins didn't fuss. It just wasn't in her nature. She could press her lips into a thin, disapproving line better than anybody he knew, however, and she knew how to rant.

"It was a close thing. You're lucky your hypothermia wasn't more severe. As it is, ingesting all that water, plus the drug in your system, you were in a mild state of shock. Thank goodness Tim had the good judgment to call me. Also you're going to need follow-up shots, there's some nasty stuff floating in these waterways."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Bed rest for two days," she said. "No arguments. Tim's going to keep me informed and if I hear you've been out on patrol or even training, I will personally come back here and render you unconscious myself."

"Yes, ma'am," he said. He started to sit up in bed but Leslie shoved him back down.

"And stop calling me 'ma'am'. Get some rest." Dr. Thompkins glared down at him, shaking her head.

As she left the room, he heard her muttering to herself, "So typical, gets it from him I'm sure, if I had a dime for every time they—"

Thankfully, he couldn't hear the rest.

***

He slept fitfully, dreaming of being under water, of being trapped.

When he finally surfaced at dawn, it was because his cell phone, which he'd left switched on, was ringing. Dick rummaged through the bedclothes and saw from the caller ID that it was Barbara.

He picked up immediately. She never called his cell anymore. Her Tim calls were all to the land line. "Hi."

"Did I wake you?"

"Yeah, but don't worry about it. My fault for leaving the cell on." He yawned.

"I'm sorry."

"Barbara, it's okay."

"That was scary."

This wasn't what he'd expected her to say. He'd expected her to ask if he was all right, or if Tim was all right, or if they needed anything.

When he didn't speak, she continued. "When we heard the rumor, we knew nothing else. As far as we knew you were dead. If it had been true and it turned out Blockbuster had killed you, I would have hunted him down and killed him myself," she said calmly. "I just wanted you to know that." She hung up.

Dick Grayson had worked out a few things he wanted to tell Barbara Gordon. That even though the past was past, and they had each made their choices, if she ever needed anything, she only had to ask him. That he would personally beat the tar out of anyone who hurt her. That these things were facts, like the sun rising, no matter what they were to each other now.

He had never told her any of it, though, which meant that even if he thought he was over her, he probably wasn't.

 

***

Later in the morning, Alfred also phoned.

"You're sure you're all right, Master Richard?"

"Dr. Thompkins says I will be so long as I follow her instructions."

"How is Master Timothy talking all of this?"

"He's okay." Dick hesitated, then made a decision. "Alfred, I have to ask you to do something, and you're not going to like it. You can't tell Bruce what I'm about to tell you."

"Master Dick..."

"I know you don't like having secrets from him. But this is for Tim's sake. And I want you to know, we trust you. I've already asked Tim if we could tell you and he said yes. He just doesn't want Bruce to know."

"Know what?"

"Tim saved my life last night. He snuck out of the loft dressed in a makeshift uniform. He watched Blockbuster and his men throw me into the river, then dove in and pulled me out." Dick sat up in bed and put his feet on the bare wooden floor. "There's more. A few months ago some guys tried to mug Tim in an alley. He took them down, and it upset him. It's been more than a year since he's done any fighting. So I started training him. I don't mean the weight training and gymnastics you saw. Martial arts. Hand-to-hand. Picking up where he left off. It was partly Leslie's idea. Alfred, Tim _needs_ this, and Bruce can't see that because he's scared, and just wants to protect him. You and I understand that. Maybe Tim will too someday."

There was a long silence on the other end.

"Alfred?"

"I understand. Take care of yourself, lad. And of Tim."

After he hung up the phone, Dick sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring through the windows at the sky above Bludhaven, thinking.

***

While Tim was out picking up a pizza, he put the box on the kitchen table with Tim's name written on a post-it note stuck to the lid.

Then he left the kitchen and sat down on the couch with the book he was reading. He left the swinging door open.

He heard Tim unlock the door, heard him call out to announce that he was back. Dick smelled the pizza and heard Tim moving around in the kitchen.

Then there was a terrible quiet. Dick got up and went to the kitchen door.

Tim had taken the lid off the box and was staring down at what was inside. He hadn't noticed Dick yet.

With a wordless cry of rage, Tim grabbed the box and hurled it against the wall. The scarlet and green costume with its black and yellow cape fluttered out of the box to land in a forlorn heap in front of the refrigerator.

Then Tim looked up and saw Dick.

"I don't want it! Why did you leave it for me? It's not even mine."

"It's just a gift," Dick said. "You can do what you want with it. And I gave you mine instead of yours because yours is currently under glass in the Batcave. I asked for mine back a few years ago, so I already had it. I couldn't ask for yours without Bruce getting suspicious."

Tim went over to the fallen costume and began gathering it up with movements almost tender, as if it was a living thing. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to treat it like that." He rose and held it out to Dick. "But I don't want it."

Dick held out his hands in denial. "No, don't give it back to me. That part of my life is over."

"Then why?" Tim let it drop to the table. It settled gracefully, the cape trailing almost to the floor. When he looked up, his cheeks were wet with tears. "You told me once that you couldn't go back, you could only go forward. Are you telling me to go backwards?"

"No." Dick sat down and touched the smooth, thick fabric. The bright yellow "R" in its circle of black had barely faded after being mothballed for so many years. "When I gave it up, it was my choice. You had it taken from you." He looked across the table at Tim. "Robin's not gone from inside you. He's still in there somewhere. Don't think of it as going backwards. Think of it as finishing something that got interrupted."

Dick took the pizza and left Tim alone at the kitchen table to stare down at the piece of himself that Dick Grayson had abandoned, but would never regret.

***

Leslie returned to Bludhaven and gave Dick a clean bill of health.

Nightwing's network of Bludhaven informers had gotten a tip that Blockbuster was going to steal a shipment of electronics coming into the harbor. Since he hadn't been on patrol for a week, he figured Blockbuster didn't know he was alive, and this would give him the element of surprise.

As he stood on the rooftop, ready to fire his rapelling line, he heard a step behind him and the sound of the door hinges creaking. He turned, already knowing who he would probably see, a ghost of himself. "It fits you. You've gotten taller," he said.

The costume was a little loose on Tim, but not enough to hamper his movements. In the night wind, the black cape fluttered, flashing its yellow lining.

"I liked mine better."

"Yours _was_ better."

Together they shot their rappelling hooks, and swung out into the night.

In addition to the element of surprise, Nightwing figured he now had a secret weapon.

Bludhaven had never seen anything like a Robin before.

***

In the morning, the cops found Blockbuster tied up in a fish net, dangling over the crates of electronics he'd been planning to steal. There were a dozen or so hired heavies lying on the dock, their hands also tied with netting.

Tucked into the web of Blockbuster's net were two small plastic tokens. One was a stylized representation of the spread wings of a bird of prey. The other was a yellow "R" inside a black circle.

Officer Rohrbach sipped her coffee, turning the wing-shaped token over in her fingers in the sunlight. "I love it when he gift wraps them."

 

***

Gossip traveled fast in the superhero community as well. Nightwing and Robin had been patrolling together for three days when Dick got a coded message.

Clouds covered the stars, but the lights of the city served as a fair substitute. Nightwing went alone up on the rooftop to greet the shadow.

"This ends. Now."

"Sorry, but this isn't your decision."

"It's not yours, either."

"That's right. It's not." Nightwing folded his arms.

"I forbid it."

"You can't."

"It's my—"

"Bludhaven," Nightwing said slowly, "is _my_ city. You have a say in who heroes around in Gotham. Not here."

They stood in silence facing each other, equally implacable.

"If anything happens to him, I'm holding you personally responsible." Batman stepped up on the low rooftop wall. "He doesn't show up in Gotham." He fired his rappelling gun and was gone.

When Nightwing returned to the roof access door and turned the handle, he was surprised to discover that his hands were shaking.

***

They patrolled together, stopping a string of petty thefts, attempted muggings and rapes, and one kidnapping. In the power vacuum left behind by Blockbuster, more rose to struggle for dominance.

There were certain rules Nightwing established. Tim rolled his eyes, but Dick made him promise. He was to act as backup but never to go out on his own. He was to train scrupulously. He was to follow orders.

When Dick thought of the old saying about turning into your parents, he wanted to laugh until it hurt.

***

NOVEMBER

After weeks of training and rules and the occasional reprimand, Tim asked for more evenings at home because he wanted to study. He said he also had a project he wanted to work on.

The first week without Robin taught Nightwing a few new things.

He understood the faint undercurrent of relief that he didn't have to keep an eye out for a less experienced partner. He learned the ways he could get sloppy because he had gotten used to someone watching his back. He finally knew what it meant to be up to your neck in bad guys, feeling yourself slipping under the tide, and hoping for a flash of scarlet and green that he knew probably wouldn't be there that night.

***

Tim came into breakfast one morning holding a box.

"I'm not giving this back to you, because I know you don't want it back," Tim said. "I'm putting it away. It can go in a glass case in the Nightwing lair. That's where it belongs, not on me."

"Tim."

"No, it's okay. You were right, I wasn't done and I'm still not done. But I can't do this wearing your old costume. You found your own new identity. I have to as well."

He put the box down.

"Thanks for letting me finish."

***

TWO NIGHTS LATER

Nightwing sensed that he had company on the rooftop. He turned and saw a stranger.

This stranger was clad in black and red. The black cape held not even a hint of yellow. The somber colors made him seem taller, leaner than he was before.

Nightwing thought that this was something entirely new. This wasn't like his Robin, or Tim's Robin, or like Batman or Nightwing or Batgirl, even though they had all had a hand in its creation. Mostly, it belonged to Tim.

"Ready?" Nightwing asked.

The stranger's black mask flared up in harsh points on either side of his face. He nodded.

"So what do I call you?"

"Red Bird."

 

THE END


End file.
